The Devil's Dance
by The Wayland Smith
Summary: A semi-prologue to Harry Potter and the Broken Oath. The war is over for Harry, but adventures do have a tendency to find him. Especially at Halloween. Especially when there is someone with a lust for dark power around. Sometimes though he finds the most unlikely allies.


**A/N:** This chapter is merely a small extra story within the universe of Harrry Potter and the Broken Oath as a celebration of the fact that I've been writing that story for a year now. This was posted originally on the anniversary of the story's beginning.

Reading Harry Potter and the Broken Oath is not strictly necessary to understand this story, but if you have not it may seem somewhat disconnected from the Harry Potter Universe.

If anyone has the bizarre and inexplicable urge to review please do so. I would be delighted to hear from you.

* * *

A little bit of background for those of you who have not read The Broken Oath:

Harry lost the war, unable to destroy the horcrux within himself as Snape had died at the Battle of Seven Potters and left no information on the course events must take he decided to cut a deal with Voldemort himself, unbeknownst to his friends. At the final battle Ginny, among others, died. Harry made an unbreakable vow with Voldemort which restricted their actions against one another, and in Voldemort's case against the world beyond magical Britain, including against muggles. Harry in turn was unable to seek a way to destroy Voldemort and, preserved as a horcrux was doomed to live on unaging now that he had reached maturity. Voldemort was left with a kingdom to rule and immortality. Unable to face those friends who remained Harry buried Ginny's corpse and fled into exile. Ron and Hermione and a few other survivors fled abroad. At this point in the story Harry is wandering in his exile.

**The Devil's Dance**

_The Devil, can sometimes do a very gentlemanly thing._

Robert Louis Stevenson

_Yorkshire, October 30th 2012:_

The cold October wind gusted over the moorland tugging at the remnants of the morning's mist as Harry trudged up the winding earth track which curved around the base of the cliff. He pulled the rucksack tighter across his back, wishing that he had something more substantial to protect him from the chill. The sky was the colour of lead, where it could be seen through the pale, white, wisps of mist. Thick, heavy clouds hung above, barely holding back the rain, when they broke it would at least end the clinging, coiling mist. The tough, moorland grass had lost the dark green of summer and now it was tipped with yellow which flowed downwards towards the remaining green. He scrambled upwards, clambering over the dark, black rocks which filled this end of the valley.

For a moment he paused, standing astride a boulder, scanning the landscape. The moor was bare of walkers, no dark shapes moved across the earth and in the sky only rooks and crows wheeled and spun, their harsh voices hardly audible on the wind. He sighed in relief, it had been many months since he had last seen a Death Eater or a bounty hunter pursuing him in the misguided belief that Voldemort would be grateful for his head, but he could not shake the feeling of impending danger.

He stepped down from the rock, sheltering behind it, rubbing his arms to keep warm. He considered a heating charm for a moment before deciding against it as too risky: though the odds on such a small spell being detected were slim he had no desire to chance it. All the more reason to hurry on, if he was lucky he might find a quiet inn at to sleep for the night or some such place in any case.

He paused for a moment as the path split in two, soundless words slipped from his mouth, more from habit than intent by now, "I greet you, friends, and wish you well." It was a ritual, a chance to honour the fallen at all crossing places, to hope that they could hurry on to the other side.

As he rounded the corner, cresting the slope he saw a man sitting with his back to him upon a stile. Harry's hand clutched instinctively around his wand, almost drawing it from the glamoured sheath at his hip. He resisted the impulse, the likelihood was that the man was merely a muggle. Harry refused to give in entirely to paranoia, that way lay only madness.

"Good morning," the man said, half turning as Harry approached, pulling a pipe from his mouth. His appearance was not what Harry had expected. His clothing was, of course, the same as it had been, a long, heavy, dark brown leather coat, covering most of him, but while Harry had presumed that he was probably young or at most middle aged closer inspection revealed him to be well advanced in years. His hair was grey and while, trimmed short, was still quite thick, but his face was covered in a hundred tiny wrinkles of the kind which while they reveal age fail to dim their bearer's fire. A neat, beard and moustache covered chin and upper lip, though they did not spread outwards to his ears or even along his jawline.

"Good morning," Harry replied, "fine morning."

"Aye, it is at that. It's strange to see a fellow come by the Devil's Pit though, not many people walk that way nowadays. Would I be right in guessing you're not from around these parts?" The old man's voice was firm although layered as if he were permanently amused at some hidden joke.

"You would. You don't sound as if you're from around here either though, to go by your accent," Harry remarked, trying to keep the suspicion from his voice. "The Devil's Pit though? I'm not sure I've seen any signs about it around here."

"Too true, too true," the man said, tapping his pipe out against the post of the style. "I'm not from around here. The name's Nicholas by the by, though most folks call me Old Nick nowadays. The Pit is over there," He grinned engagingly, pointing to a point some thirty yards away where the ground dropped away in a sink hole.

"Harry," Harry replied honestly. "Whereabouts are you from originally then?" His eyes scanned the man up and down, but there seemed to be no threat, and his posture was relaxed and natural.

"Down Under, though you might not guess it," Nick replied. He took a long, considering look at Harry. "You know lad, it might be an idea if you moved on sharpish like. The folks around here aren't too friendly and Halloween is almost upon us. That's a bad time for anyone to be away from home. Hard to trust people around here too, me-self excluded of course."

"Right, thanks ..." Harry said awkwardly, he was not quite sure whether Nick was actually giving him advice, or merely politely telling him to bugger off. He decided it was probably the latter. "I'll be on my way then."

"Good lad, good luck to you," the old man gave a crooked smile and hopped down off the stile. He turned to Harry, "You wouldn't happen to have such a thing as an apple on you would you?" He asked, "Only I forgot to have a bite to eat before I came out this morning."

"Sure, give me a moment," Harry replied, slightly bemused. He dug around in his backpack before pulling out a somewhat wrinkled apple.

"Champion, thanks lad," Old Nick nodded to Harry and set off across the moorland. He paused for a moment and called back over his shoulder, "Remember what I said: this is a bad place, you don't want to stick around. Trust me."

Harry stood by the stile for a few moments, looking after him. There had been something slightly surreal about the conversation, stilted in a way he could not quite describe. He frowned and shook his head, before setting off in the opposite direction to Nick. When he looked back the moor was bare and empty. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the wind blew over the yellowed grass, sweeping the dusty scent of heather with it.

* * *

It was late afternoon by the time Harry came to the inn and the light was dying fast, a few glimmers of red and gold shimmered on the horizon, although they only served to highlight the dark clouds above. He glanced around and behind him, trying to figure out where he was, the path he had taken had curved in a multitude of knots until he was no longer sure how far he had come, as the crow flies. He might have been twenty miles from where he had been that morning, or he could have been five hundred yards. In the fading light it was impossible to tell. It had been raining intermittently throughout the day and now it was beginning to set in in earnest. He had wiped the rain from his glasses and squinted across the road, unsure at first if the inn was half derelict or not. The sign swung, cracked and half broken from the crumbling wall and several of the windows were boarded over. He was fairly sure that the roof was missing tiles.

Still there was little choice and there was the hint of warm, yellow light through one of the dark windows, even if the inn was no longer open as a business there was some chance he might beg shelter. The wood of tall, damp pines which loomed over the low, grey, stone wall was not an attractive site for spending the night and his wanderings through the day, round and round the moors in an attempt to leave the area had exhausted him. The fact that inn's sign still read _The Devil's Inn_ and displayed a daemonic figure clambering from the valley only confirmed his fear that he had failed to move far at all.

A wave of rain, slamming down upon him in a torrent decided the issue for him and half running, half pushed by the rain he ran to the inn. The door was stiff, but a sharp push opened it and he was inside and in the dry. For all its uninviting appearance on the outside the inside of the inn was far less unappealing, admittedly it was dusty and cobwebs hung in many of the corners, but it had the redeeming qualities of light, and warmth.

Harry shook himself like a dog before making his way over to the bar. It ran in a semi circle around the central pillar of the building, dull metal beer taps lined the dark, scuffed wood, and behind it a fridge filled with various drinks clanked away. He sat, removing his rucksack to crack the muscles of his back, rolling his shoulders, suppressing a groan. Leaning on the bar, head in his hands he waited letting his thoughts slip away.

It was perhaps five minutes before the barman finally turned up. He was a dark, surly looking man with a thick, short, dark brown beard; perhaps thirty or thirty five years old. He was dressed in black jeans and a black shirt, stained here and there with spots of egg and toothpaste. He was rubbing at one such spot with saliva slicked fingers as he approached the bar, unaware of Harry's presence.

Harry coughed politely, although behind the bar his hand gripped the hilt of his wand tightly. "Excuse me ..."

The man jumped, his hand leaping away from the now damp patch on his shirt, the movement pulling the material tight against the mound of his stomach. "Eh? What are you doing in here?"

"I was wondering if you had any rooms free ..." said Harry, standing up slowly, careful to maintain a relaxed posture.

"No."

"I'd be willing to pay in advance."

"I said no. You can have a drink, but rooms are out of the question," the barman insisted. "In any case there ain't any food in the house."

"A packet of crisps then? And something dark to drink. I really don't have anywhere to go, and no one else is likely to put me up …" Harry said, pulling his wallet out with a free hand.

"Sure. On your own then?"

"Yes … a walking holiday of sorts," Harry explained cautiously as the man pulled the beer, letting it foam as it hit the grubby glass.

"Bad weather to be walking in," the barman stated, as if Harry had somehow failed to notice the fact that he was practically soaked to the skin.

Harry gave a wan smile before replying, "Yes, I had noticed, kind of the reason I was looking for lodging."

"What's a young man like yourself doing wandering around without a friend or two with you though?"

"Haven't really got any friends to wander around with … I'm not as close as I was with those that I have," Harry answered, unwilling to lie unless it was necessary, the question was harmless enough after all. He took a sip of the dark, nutty beer and licked his lips, giving a small sigh of satisfaction. He handed over a fiver. The barman passed him the change and a pack of crisps. He seemed to be considering something.

"It's not good to be out on a night like this, and I'd feel bad turning out a lad knowing he's got nowhere to stay. As long as you don't mind a bit of dust and the like you can take a room here. £45 a night, though, not a penny less. I've got to keep this place going somehow," he said slowly, grinding the words out.

Harry nodded, peeling out notes from his wallet, "There you go then. Is it likely that anyone else will turn up?"

The barman snorted, "Not bloody likely, specially not in this weather, specially not at this time of year. We pretty much close for the season, though I guess if the weather holds up then I can keep the place open for you, so long as you don't expect much in the way of service."

"The quiet life suits me fine. Do you think the rain will keep on then?" Harry asked, sliding his wand back into its sheath, relatively sure that the barman was not a threat.

"Most like. That's what the weather report said in any case. Are you going anywhere in particular? Booked in a hostel or something? You can ring ahead if you want to explain you'll be late," the barman offered helpfully, pulling up a seat from behind the bar.

"Nope, just wandering about here and there," Harry answered, sipping the beer before pulling open the packet of crisps.

It was not long till Harry set off for bed. He had signed his name in the guest-book, hesitating over it, the pen digging into the paper at the end of the letter y, before he decided upon Nemo as a surname. For some reason doing so amused him, probably more than it ought to have done. In any case it was not his real name, he reflected, and he could remember it easily enough. That was what mattered. Who knew, he might even use it again someday.

He climbed the narrow, creaking staircase, dust rising from the wooden slats. The electricity had long since died on the first floor and had never been replaced, and so Harry carried a long, white candle before him as he climbed the stairs, careful not to move too fast for the flame. When the innkeeper had handed it to him and he had raised an eyebrow the answer had been a shrug and the observation that if Harry wished to find his room in the dark then he was more than welcome to. Harry had taken the candle.

The hallway was narrow and crooked, the uneven floor was covered in a thin worn carpet. Paintings of the inferior sort, which leave the impression that one should not look away lined the walls. He heaved himself onwards until he came to the third door to the right and pushed it open. The room was reasonably wide with a long, single bed lying in the centre, its head aligned with the curtained window. He closed the door behind him and set the candle on the bedside table.

Harry threw down his pack and peeled off his wet clothes, hanging them along the bed-rail. Then, rummaging through the ruck sack he redressed in fresh dry clothes and pulled the sheets and blankets from the bed, lying them on the floor beside it.

Picking the candle up once more he padded down the hall to the bathroom and opening the door slipped inside. The tiles were a horrible shade of avocado green and the porcelain bowl of the loo was yellowing and covered in a networks of cracks the colour of rusted iron. He brushed his teeth quickly and rinsed his face. It was as he turned to leave that he heard footsteps pass the door and there was the glow of light under the frame. His wand was in his hand in a flash his body was tensed, ready to spring. The moment and the light passed. He opened the door. There was no-one there. Taking the candle he made his way back to his room, almost bumping into the innkeeper who was just coming from the stairs.

"Breakfast at eight?" The man asked, slightly out of breath from the steep flight of steps.

"Yes, thank you ..." Harry hesitated, unsure if the question on the tip of his tongue would be considered rude. He decided to ask it anyway, "You don't happen to have anyone else staying do you?"

"No," the man's face was blank and confused, "why?"

"Oh, I thought I saw someone …" Harry said, trying to read the barman's face in the candle light.

"Must have been the cat. Good night," and with that the barman strode off down the corridor.

"Yes, of course," Harry murmured to the barman's turned back before slipping into his room and locking the door. Pausing for a second he followed up the key with a series of spells. Cats, after all, did not carry candles.

He sheathed his wand again and undressed. Kneeling upon the carpet, the cold air on his pale skin, which still bore the thick ugly scars of so many past battles, though they were beginning to fade, he began to recite the names.

"Ginny, Neville, Hannah, Susan, Seamus, Colin, Dean, Alastor, Lupin, Dumbledore, Sirius, Tonks, Dennis, Katie, Angelina, George, Fred, Molly ..." the list went on and on. Name after name tumbled from his lips. There was the fear, of course, that he was going to forget. Forget just one of them. The fear that the time would come when their faces and names would be swept away, when he could not name them, did not remember them. Even that he would not bother any more.

At last he lay down on his back on the pile of blankets ripped from the bed, before pulling a couple over himself. His wand he placed in easy reach, and then he closed his eyes. Sleep came easily, and with it the nightmares.

* * *

The rain was still running down the windows when Harry woke and the clouds were heavy and low, almost seeming to skim the tree tops of the wood on the other side of the road, at least in those places where it was not obscured by the pelting rain. The glimmers of sunlight were faint and watery, leaving the room in a strange, half grey light. The sound of water was everywhere, beating against the roof and sloshing through the gullies of the drains.

Harry rolled out of his makeshift bed and dressed hurriedly. With his hair still tousled from the night, and with bleary eyes he half walked, half staggered down the stairs, almost tripping over a thin black and white cat which lay upon the bottom step. With a muttered apology to the animal he made his way to the dining area of the pub. A few boxes of cereal were lined up along with a jug of milk and a bowl filled with half a dozen wizened apples and a couple of oranges.

A small clock ticked above the mantelpiece, its hands pointing to a quarter past eight. Harry rubbed his eyes, somewhat surprised that he had managed to sleep for so long. The barman of the night before was eating at one of the tables. As Harry collected together the food for breakfast the barman finished the last of his own cereal and strode over to him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Have what you feel like. There's no rush. No-one's going to turn up here on a day like this. Happy Halloween by the way. Will you be staying do you think?" The question was rushed, eager even, thrown in amid the other statements almost casually.

Harry looked at him cautiously, pouring the milk into his cereal. There was nothing hugely suspicious in the man's face, but then again that was no guide. There _was_ some reason to be suspicious, but on the other hand whoever had been upstairs the night before it was unlikely to have been Death Eaters, given the fact that there had been no attack, and most other threats he could easily deal with. The possibility of a mystery to be solved in a desolate inn atop a windy moor was too good to pass up really. Not to mention the fact that he had no desire to expose himself to the elements again.

"Yes, definitely. You don't have any books around though, do you?"

The innkeeper thought for a moment, his forehead crinkling as the cogs and wheels spun. "Aye. I'll bring them out for you if you want to read one. I've got to get on with the decorating presently though."

"Decorating?"

"I'm doing the place up, and there are the Halloween decorations to be put up too. There's always the chance that someone might come by."

Harry looked around at the flaking paint on the walls, the dust laden tables and the cobwebs which hung from the ceiling. He stifled a somewhat less than polite remark, exchanging it for a quick, "You'll have your work cut out I'm sure. I'll try to keep out of your way."

They passed one another and Harry sat down at the table to begin munching his way through the slightly sodden rice crispies. The barman turned up not long afterwards with a boxful of books under one thick arm, and another filled with decorations under the other. As plastic spiderwebs and bobbing bats joined the real spiders around the bar Harry flicked through the books. The selection was not wide and was swiftly reduced. The grubbby, dog-eared copy of a Mills and Boon novel with its suspect stains was hurriedly pushed aside along with a thin paperback Agatha Christi, the last htree pages of which were missing; Marlow's Faust went the same way, and with it an excessively long fantasy novel which, from the glance Harry took, seemed to centre around a hero who defeated all of his enemies with incredible ease. Eventually he was left with a copy of _As You Like It_ and the collected poems of Lewis Carroll. Flipping a coin to decide between the two he picked up the copy of _As You Like It _and settled down to read.

It would be somewhat inaccurate to say that he lost himself in the majesty of Shakespeare's language, but slowly, as the rain beat against the windows his awareness of the outside world dimmed. The barman bustled around, hammering in nails for new decorations into the rafters, stripping the paint from the walls and even making an attempt to remove some of the dust from the room. At last he began to tie red thread to iron nails above the windows and doors, hanging rowan berried from the thin cords.

It was the urgent call of his bladder which eventually forced Harry to vacate the dining area and climb the rickety staircase. He tossed the books down onto his bed, snatched up a towel and toiletries from his bag and made his way to the bathroom. After relieving himself he stepped into the shower, letting the warm water sweep away the chill of the rain and the remnants of sleep, which even in the late morning still clung to him. It was as he showered that he heard the voices, carried through the thin wall to him.

The first voice, high pitched and feminine did not carry particularly well through the wall, especially with the cascading water of the shower, but it was still partially audible, "This … perfect … a gift … meant to succeed."

"It is just the opportunity … no-one will miss … tonight then?" A second voice replied, a low masculine growl.

"Yes, the doors … sealed. Everything must … all we could want …"

Harry wiped the soap from his eyes, his skin prickling, and leaving the shower running he dried and dressed himself quietly. Drawing his wand he slipped out of the bathroom, his bare feet silent on the floor. He paused, trying to hear the voices through the doors, before deciding to simply try the room closest to the bathroom. He tested the door knob, it turned but refused to open. The voices were inaudible now, and he pointed his wand at the lock.

"Can I help you?" The barman's voice came from almost beside his ear. Harry half jumped, only just remembering to hide the wand with his body.

"Sorry, I was just looking for you …" Harry lied quickly, slipping the wand into its glamoured sheath.

"Really? Whatever for?" The barman asked, his eyebrows knotted with suspicion.

"Erm … I couldn't work out how to turn off the shower," Harry tried lamely.

"Oh, that's easy, let me show you," the barman said, leading the way back into the bathroom and turning the knob of the shower round to the marked off position.

"Ah, thanks … how stupid of me. I'll just go to my room and read then …" Harry mumbled awkwardly.

"Good idea. Lunch will be soon, and tea is at seven," the landlord said, still watching Harry carefully.

"Tea?"

"Dinner, I suppose you Southerners would call it."

"Thanks, Ill be along soon," Harry replied, slipping back into his room.

Supper, it turned out, consisted of a reheated lasagne and a collection of heavily boiled vegetables. At least Harry presumed they were vegetables, the somewhat unhealthy grey complexion which the prolonged boiling had given them threw the issue into some doubt, as did the taste. Despite this Harry ate hungrily, relishing the salty, greasy food for its warmth at the very least.

The plastic bats swayed sullenly in the breezes which blew from the various cracks in the windows and building. Thanking the landlord Harry returned to his room, yawning from sudden exhaustion. The rare possibility of rest, must, he decided be too tempting for his body. Performing his nightly rituals as quickly as possible Harry slipped into the bed without even bothering to undress.

* * *

It perhaps two or three hours later that he half awoke to the sound of someone fiddling with the door. He struggled into a sitting position, his head unusually heavy. He rolled out of his bed, scrabbling at the backpack's zip, his fingers felt thick and numb.

Outside he could hear voices, although they seemed to come from far away. The sound trickled into his brain like treacle, only gradually making sense. "Come one, hurry up and open the door before he wakes," a woman's voice commanded.

"The lock's stuck, it won't open, why don't you do your thing? Catching him by surprise is almost as good as catching him asleep …" the innkeeper's voice slowly penetrated Harry's mind as he continued speaking. "I'm not sure I gave him enough of the sleeping power in any case. We need to hurry."

Harry did his best to force aside the unnatural languor which had settled over his limbs. He pulled frantically at the bag, desperately wishing that it were a coat, say, something with clearly individual pockets. He tugged at the silvery cloth of his invisibility cloak, pulling it free with an effort. Hauling himself onto his feed he threw the cloak over himself and tottered to the wall.

Outside the woman sighed. "Fine, stand back then. _Bombarda_!" The door was outlined by blue light for a moment before it crashed inwards, shattering into a thousand, tiny splinters. A tall slender figure, dressed in moss green robes stepped through the doorway, a wand in her hand. She glanced from side to side, a pale glow emanating from the tip of her wand. "I can't see him. You are sure you put him in here, aren't you Mortimer?"

Harry held his breath, swaying slightly as he leant against the wall. The woman advanced into the room, peering under the bed, opening the wardrobe, all to no avail. "_Homenum revelio_," she commanded, but nothing happened. She scowled and turned to leave, pulling the hood up over her hair which seemed almost to glow in the wand light.

Harry blinked as she and the innkeeper left, letting out a long, slow sigh of relief. His hand skittered over the wood of the bedside cabinet as he fumbled for his glasses. It took a moment and a poke in the eye before he managed to set them on straight and lurch to the window. He reached out for the glass, but as his hand reached the line of red thread above the window the air bent and his hand was pushed aside. That way out, at least, was impassable for the moment.

Harry stumbled from the room, the world spinning, holding his cloak about his shoulders. He staggered down the stairs, his only thought that he needed to leave the building. There were four of them in the bar, including the innkeeper. Apart from the woman in green they say or stood awkwardly in black robes, uncomfortable in them, although attempting it seemed to look as grand as possible.

Harry slowed, gathering himself to cross the room when the innkeeper, carrying a tray of beers tripped upon his robes as he passed Harry's position. The golden brown liquid lifted from the glasses in a long smooth arc. Harry, dazed by the drugs was unable to move and it splashed down over the invisibility cloak. There was a moment of silence as they all watched the beer drip off thin air, and then with a cry they were upon him.

Harry liked to imagine that he gave a good account of himself in the blur of motion that followed. Certainly by the time that his hands had been tied behind his back and he was kneeling on the floor one of his assailants was nursing bruised ribs, another a black eye and all of them bore a small collection of cuts and grazes. However, there was little harm done, and for his trouble Harry found himself securely bound. His captors were nervous he realised, as he came to his senses. They fidgeted, frequently looking to their watches. The invisibility cloak lay pooled on the floor. He considered framing a question, but the red robed witch, who was, he was relatively sure the only one with any magic, had stood up and pulled the cowl of her cloak down over her face by the time he was ready.

"Come," she said, "it is time. We must go to the Devil's Pit and complete our work."

The others leapt to obey and after the innkeeper had removed the red thread from the doorway, something the witch seemed unable to touch, they passed out of the house, marching Harry between them. He stumbled along among them, drawn by a length of rope. There was no need for light, muggle or magical, for a full moon hung heavy in a sky now clear of all clouds. Silvery light shone down upon them, and if it was not as bright as day then it was still bright enough to see by. There was a momentary stumble and one of the black robed figures bumped against Harry, and an old, amused voice apologised. As they walked Harry pulled his hands against the bonds, struggling to free them.

They came to the top of the cliff which overlooked the sinkhole known as the Devil's Pit, save for the very edges of the hole it was pitch black. The woman in green forced Harry to his knees. For a moment he saw her face, thin lipped and taut.

"Why?" He asked, his voice hoarse and cracked. One of his hands was almost free.

She hesitated, torn between the desire to justify herself, and the desire to finish the job. "For the oldest reasons. Power and glory. _Silencio._" Harry fell unwillingly silent as she cast the spell.

She stepped backwards, drawing a long, thin dagger of black glass from her robes and holding it aloft she spoke loudly, "I call upon you all as witnesses. Come wind, come rain, come moors and moon, come stars and sky. I call you. I offer blood to the powers unseen. Raise and summon the Prince of this World, the Father of Lies, the Lord of the Hidden Land. I offer blood for aid, wisdom and council, upon this, the most magical of nights." She threw back her head and screamed a series of words in a language that Harry did not know, although had he been forced to guess he might have supposed it to be a dialect of Hell. The words stung the ears and burnt in the air. Around her the other four figures Harry could see were also chanting. Harry blinked, and was about to look again when absolute silence fell. No nightbird cried, the wind mad no noise as it moved over the grass. Harry shivered, and his mind flicked from the desire not to be stabbed to the desire for a thick, warm coat.

The witch brought the blade down, it sliced through the air, aimed at Harry's throat, and in that instant he made his move. Twisting he pulled his hands free of the ropes, and threw himself to the side, the dagger went wide, only scoring a mark along his cheek, a red trickle of blood dripping to the stones. He lashed out with his legs and caught the witch, already unbalanced by her ill-aimed lunge, behind he knee. She toppled, helpless, into the gaping mouth of the Devil's Pit, screaming. The sacrificial dagger, knocked from her hand spiralled into the air and Harry, reaching up, caught it with ease.

For a moment the remaining acolytes looked at him. Then the tallest spoke sharply, "Mortimer, Lucy, spread out. Encircle him. He can't take all of us."

"No, he can't," replied the fourth of the black robed figures, quietly, "but I can."

There was a sickening pause as the other three turned look at their companion, seeing him for the first time. Harry's breath caught in his throat as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

Then the moment was over and the fourth figure moved in a blur. Ducking under Mortimer's arm he reached up and with casual ease wrenched the barman's head back. The crack of bone shattering rang across the moor and Mortimer slumped to the ground. Already the figure was moving on, drawing a knife from his robes he danced out of the way of Lucy's wild stabs and catching her arm held her still for the second it took him to slice a thin, red line across her throat from ear to ear. The last of the acolytes was already charging towards his back, too quickly to stop himself as the figure threw his knife over his shoulder, almost lazily. The blade hummed through the air as the figure stepped out of the acolyte's path. The knife sunk up to the hilt in the tall man's chest. He gave a gurgle and collapsed forwards.

The figure turned and pulled down his hood and pulling off his robe, smiling at Harry as he did so. "Well now, that was bracing wasn't it?"

Harry swallowed, eyeing the man carefully, "Hello Nick, how unexpected to see you here."

"Oh do put that knife away. If I'd wanted to attack you I'd have already done it. Here, you look chilled to the bone, take my coat. No, no, I insist." The old man chucked Harry a long brown, leather coat which he all too happily slipped on.

"I think I owe you my thanks," Harry began, trying not to look at the bodies littered around the edge of the hole.

"Don't mention it," Old Nick said absently as he heaved the bodies off the slope and into the pit, lifting them with remarkable ease for a man who appeared to be in his eighties.

"Well thanks anyway. Erm … you don't think it worked do you?" Harry asked awkwardly, throwing the dagger after the bodies.

"Oh no, you can't summon someone who is already around in any place," Nick grinned at him, it was the smile of a wild cat: feral, and hungry. "In any case she wasn't very specific about who should be given aid was she, nor in fact whose blood it was to be. Is there anything you need lad?"

Harry gave him a long appraising look. "No thank you, sir. I think that's all. Would you like your coat back?"

"Oh no, you keep it. I imagine it will last you a long, long time," and with that the old man smiled again and walked away into the night, leaving Harry alone on the moor without even the bodies of the dead around him.

The trip back to the inn did not take long and Harry packed his belongings quickly. He had lost all desire to sleep and with the old man's coat on his shoulders the chill of the night did not seem to reach him. He ransacked the building for anything of use, emptying the cash register and the fridge of anything he might use. It was as he was turning to leave that he heard a purring and looking down he saw the small, black and white cat curling itself around his legs. He knelt, petting it.

"Hello there. I dare say this isn't the best place for you any more. Would you like to come with me?" Harry asked as he scratched behind its ear. It pressed its muzzle against his hand, purring loudly. "Alright then, I'll see if I can find you a good home somewhere on the road. Let's get going then."

The door swung shut behind them as they walked off into the night.

**Please review. Pretty please?**

**A/N:** For the record, just because this has been raised a couple of times, the cat is just a cat. It just happens to live at the inn and with it's owner dead (an owner who it didn't care about) it decided to go along with Harry.

Thank you to Jonh73 and Buzzbumble for their reviews (on Harry Potter and the Broken Oath).


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